


The Carnival of Rust

by Fluxx



Series: Wilt [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Demons, Geraskier Week, M/M, Post 1x06, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluxx/pseuds/Fluxx
Summary: Drunk and heartbroken, Jaskier retires to his rented room, resigned at last to accept Geralt's harsh dismissal. But perhaps he doesn't have to? A possibility awaits him, one which promises to fill the void - but every dream comes at a price.Track#Fluxx Ficsontumblrfor more fics!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Wilt [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643989
Comments: 40
Kudos: 203
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. The Carnival of Rust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KioneM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KioneM/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[-[soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MKk1u5RMTn4&list=PLk6BQLseS5ibZR004bVoscroH1IziBcG2&index=2)-] ___

Jaskier threw himself against the door. It burst open with hardly a protest, leaving his drunken legs to stumble before he caught himself against a nearby dresser. Down the hall, the innkeeper kept on yelling - something about never waking up. “Ah, put a cock in it!” he sourly retorted, and swiped at the door. His fingertips barely caught the edge, just enough to convince it shut with a feeble groan. Another swipe pulled down the wooden latch, and at last he was confined to his inebriated peace.

“Miserable cunts,” he muttered, spinning himself away from the door only to trip over his own heels. A thrown hand grasped the nearest bedpost. He pulled himself up, then wobbled his way across the modest room to the further wall, against which sat a steel basin of stale water beneath a single sheet of bronze. He thrust his hands beneath the surface, splashed the water against his face, then looked up to regard his sorry state: red-eyed, grime-caked, and framed in splotchy rust. “No wonder,” he mused with a half-choked scoff. “I doubt even a pig would lay with _that_.”

“You could try less ale.”

His heart froze. His chest grew tight. Surely, he was hearing things? He swallowed, then subtly shifted his head - _just_ enough for the mirror to peer behind him.

Rough features. Yellow eyes. White hair.

He whirled, practically falling into the basin as he did. “H-How did you get in here?!” he demanded, voice raw with fresh hurt.

Geralt lifted a single brow, then turned his face towards the window.

Even so simple a movement beckoned him, the shadows highlighting the man’s chaotic serenity as they slipped across every bone and muscle. Jaskier force his eyes to the window, where the evening breeze rustled the thin, burlap curtains. Another self-loathing scoff. “Can’t even secure my own bedroom.”

“To be fair,” Geralt replied, “it’s not technically ‘yours,’ now is it?”

That gratingly arrogant voice wrapped around Jaskier’s neck like a neusse, one he’d willingly tied and now couldn’t wrestle free of. Why couldn’t he get that sound out of his head?!

“Shut up!” he was proud to say he only _almost_ sobbed. He fixed Geralt with as harsh a glare as he could muster - the back of his mind wondered if it was just another excuse. “You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he insisted, as much to himself as to Geralt. “You… You said some _really_ hurtful things. You do know that, don’t you?”

Geralt merely stared. An eerie calm draped over him, somehow intense despite its quiet.

Was he waiting for something? Did he _want_ Jaskier to declare himself? He hesitated, then warily continued, “I stood by you through… through _everything_ . Supported you. Believed in you when everyone else thought you a monster! In return, you trample over our friendship - nay, _bury_ it as deep in the ground as you can reach - then dare invite yourself back into my own quarters?!”

Still not a word, though at least this time Geralt appeared to have at least heard him. Something stirred deeped within those eyes, burning like a pair of captured suns. The heat alone rose the hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck, whispering of an ancient intelligence he was _certain_ knew a thousand ways to—

 _No, Jaskier!_ he cursed himself. _Don’t get drawn in again by those pretty yellow eyes!_

Or were they orange?

He shook his head, suddenly wishing he’d stopped a few pints ago. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he lamented. When naught but more silence met his words, he shouted in exasperation, “Well?! What are you _doing_ here, Geralt?!”

A reaction.

Geralt’s head tilted, and his brow again rose. Something rumbled deep inside his chest. “…of Rivia?”

Jaskier stilled. A needling dread crept through him, its chill down his spine clashing against the hot blood pulsing through his veins. “S… Stop that, Geralt,” he trembled, heart racing. “Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten. You know who I am. I can see it in your eyes.” He felt like he was convincing himself as much as the man before him.

Geralt shifted, approaching but an inch - instinctively, Jaskier moved in kind, keeping the distance between them. “Let’s say that I have,” Geralt mused, his manner slow and languid, completely unconcerned by Jaskier’s apparent alarm. “You said we are… _were_ … ‘friends’?”

There was something in the air - there _must_ have been. As that single word drifting in one ear and out the other, old fantasies resurfaced, somehow more vibrant than they’d been before. A violent blush took to Jaskier’s cheeks - Geralt inched closer, and he stumbled back. “You _know_ that we were!” he voice choked, swallowing the cruel, unrequited dreams. His lips twisted, a sour taste touching his tongue. “Not that you ever admitted it. Too proud to make known your companionship with a lowly bard, I suppose!”

“Yes,” Geralt replied with that damningly inviting nod of his, “that does _sound_ like… ‘me’…”

He was closing in. Jaskier had forgotten to move, to captivating by those burning eyes. He shoved off from the wall, tripping his way to the dresser. “Stay back!” he was sorry to hear he whimpered. “I want nothing to do with you anymore!” He reached for the door’s latch.

Calloused hands caught the back of his wrists. Impossibly solid muscles slammed against his back. Warm breath, like the rays of a midday sun, plumed against his neck. “Are you _sure_?”

Even if he’d _wanted_ to wriggle free of Geralt’s pin, Jaskier knew he never could. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, his mind waging a full-on war against his senses. The latest tear of the night’s far too many loosed itself at last. “You’re not Geralt.”

Prickling stubble brushed along his bare cheek. Cracked lips lingered _just_ too far for his ear to actually touch - but plenty close enough for Geralt’s voice to slither directly down its canal. “Who says I can’t be?”

His lips traced the slope of Jaskier’s unmarred neck, but left not even a single kiss along its path. Jaskier found himself wanting desperately - and hating himself for wanting. Eyes still clenched shut, for he refused to see what he knew was not, _could_ not, he grasped for breath enough to whisper a single word. “…Why?”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” the cruel vision purred. Convinced Jaskier wouldn’t vie for freedom, Geralt’s hands released his wrists, steadily beginning their long, spider-like trip creeping along his arms.

“Why… Why me?” Jaskier managed. With every tap of Geralt’s fingertips along his sleeves, he felt his resolve slipping. He was losing this battle and, worse, couldn’t say for sure he still even wanted to win it. But what, really, was “winning” anyway? One eye dared peek open, just a smidge. “Why _him_?”

“Because I could smell your wanting,” the man purred, resonating with the same gruffness that had inspired Jaskier’s fingers against his lute. His hands reached Jaskier’s shoulders, then suddenly gripped them, hard. With a quick, practiced motion, Jaskier found himself flipped around fully, and now it wasn’t Geralt’s chest but his eyes, those fiercely captivating eyes, that pinned him against the door. The wild, hungry look he usually got in the heat of battle pulled his lips into a grin. A small piece of Jaskier’s very soul celebrated that _he_ was finally the Witcher’s “prey,” and he swore this vision before him _knew_ it. “And because _he_ is he for whom you Want.”

“That’s not true!” Jaskier insisted, but his voice betrayed him, spilling out in a half-moan. He regretted his words instantly.

Another lifted brow above another cocky smirk. “It isn’t?” Geralt’s hands released his shoulders, and his feet carried him back but a pace.

“No…” Jaskier murmured, his body leaning forward in Geralt’s wake. They both knew he lamented those hands’ departure, and they both pretended it was continued defiance.

The man’s arms spread to his sides, as much inviting Jaskier as presenting Geralt’s chiseled, hairy torso barely veiled beneath tantalizingly thin, black silk. “So send me away,” he dared, taking another step back. “Without your Want, I have no purpose, and so shall take my leave if it truly isn’t there.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, vision blurred from reborn tears. His lips trembled. He could end it all, right here and now - send “Geralt” away once and for all. All it would take was a word, and he’d be alone again in his misery, his self-loathing, his solitude. Gone would be the waking nightmare that had become Geralt’s piercing gaze, the splay of his stormcloud hair, the crawl of his scars beneath the cling of his clothes.

_Why would you want that?_

Before he really understood what he was doing, Jaskier pushed himself off the door and seized tight fistfuls of black silk. “It’s not _real_!”

As Jaskier’s body fell against Geralt’s, thick arms wrapped low around him, easily catching him without so much as a stumble. Nonetheless, Geralt’s feet twisted, and a moment later they were falling, falling… Jaskier’s back collided against the thin sheet protecting a bed of packed hay, but that wasn’t what winded him. No, that glory was claimed by the grin looming over him, features dodging back-and-forth between light and shadow as sweat-corded locks of hair caught the flickering candlelight. Through it all, only those eyes remained aglow, burning through Jaskier to his core, rimmed with the crimson passion of the devil.

The backs of rough fingertips graced the crest of Jaskier’s cheek. “Does it have to be?”

Jaskier swallowed, resigned. He’d never stood a chance. “…No,” he finally breathed, broken and defeated. His hands found Geralt’s waistband, fingertips subconsciously hooking over their edge. He searched Geralt’s face - the last, distant voice proclaiming the visage a pretender at last found itself snuffed out. “I no longer care.”

He pulled.

Geralt fell.

As at last he caught the lips he’d so desperately chased after all this time, Jaskier felt a burst of inspiration overcome his every sense, his every restraint. Neither pretense nor consequence nor decency entered his mind - only the taste of Geralt’s tongue, the smell of Geralt’s musk, the press of Geralt’s weighty need.

_What does it matter if it’s not real?_

_Let me pretend. Just this once… Just for one night…_

_…Let him be mine…_

* * *

Morning broke far too early.

Light slipped through the burlap curtains, hardly deterred by the feeble cloth. What stirred Jaskier from his slumber wasn’t its warmth, but rather the way its rays summoned an all-encompassing headache that wracked his skull. He clenched his eyes, a hand moving to press his temple, and cursed through his teeth.

“Mmm,” a distant and familiar voice rumbled. “Yes, less ale. Or at least more water.”

Jaskier jolted upright, then instantly regretted it. “For fuck’s sake,” he groaned, head cradled in both hands. He eased one eye open, peering through his fingertips towards the voice.

Geralt stared at him, perched upon the dresser in an air of pure boredom.

“Not a dream, then,” Jaskier muttered, unsure whether that point was good or bad.

It earned him a harsh cackle, one that sported none of the previous night’s alluring charm, but sending chills down Jaskier’s spine nonetheless. “Hardly. Or have you yet to take account of your surroundings?”

Jaskier hesitated, then warily glanced at the surrounding sheets. Violent color claimed his cheeks. Dried stains sprinkled all around him betrayed the night’s activities. Beyond the bed’s edge, clothes lay in every direction, at best overstretched and at worst ripped in two. “Oh, come on!” he lamented, looking back up at Geralt. He frowned, noting the perfectly-arranged boots, the crisp slacks, the fastened belt, the delicate shirt - even the relaxed, straight hair. “How come _you_ aren’t—?”

“You already know the answer to that,” Geralt harshly interrupted. He straightened up and dropped down, landing upon his feet with hardly a sound.

Jaskier’s eyes flickered over him head-to-toe. _Not real._ He swallowed, pursed his lips, nervously gathered the bedsheet close around his naked body. “I won’t try to comprehend. I get the sense I wouldn’t like it if I did.”

Geralt shrugged, then began a languid approach. “You have good instincts, I’ll give you that.”

“I don’t think Geralt’s ever complimented me before,” Jaskier whispered. He frowned, wracking his memory. Was that true? He shook his head - the only thing he saw was the tangle of limbs, the yanking of clothes, the screaming of wanton exhilaration. He felt his face grow hot, then blinked the images away before he fell victim to them once more. “Why are you still here?”

Geralt’s brow twisted with feigned hurt. “Do you wish me gone?”

“No,” Jaskier all too quickly blurted. He turned away from the man to roll off the bed and gather his clothes. “I know what you are, you know,” he replied, mostly to fill the silence before the other could taunt him further. “I’ve heard stories. You’re an incubus, aren’t you?”

“Did your precious _Geralt_ tell you?” he spat, but even despite his venom Jaskier’s ears danced at the sound.

“You know him?” he asked, chancing a quick look over his shoulder.

To his mild triumph, the demon appeared disgusted. “I know _of_ him. We all do. But you could search beyond the edges of the world and back before ever finding a Witcher who would sully himself by ‘knowing’ a single one of us.”

“I can imagine why. You know, what with the monster slaying and all,” Jaskier idly continued. He pulled his trousers up over the crest of his hips and tied them tight. Only then did he notice half the string was gone, and resigned himself to loose pants with an aggravated sigh. “Still, they seem to be a needy bunch, and you’re—” He faltered, clearing his throat. “Ahem. Um. Quite talented.”

He turned around to find an arrogant snicker. “I know.”

Jaskier’s eyes slid down to the incubus’s outstretched hand - his tunic hung from from his finger by a hole the size of his fist. “Lovely,” he grumbled, reaching out to take it.

It moved swiftly beyond reach, the fabric brushing along his fingertips. Jaskier glared up at the incubus, who was once more wearing Geralt’s enchantingly cocked head and arrogant smile. “You were quite desperate last night,” he replied, voice oozing like thick molasses.

“Isn’t that the whole reason you showed up?” Jaskier groaned, letting his hand fall to his side. He knew full well he wasn’t reclaiming his shirt a single moment before the incubus allowed it. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

“No, but…” The incubus passed the shirt to his other hand, then draped it delicately over Jaskier’s shoulders, using it to pull the slighter man closer. “Perhaps I can help?”

“I don’t think my clothes could withstand another round!” Jaskier quickly replied, grabbing at his tunic before the incubus could reclaim it. He defiantly pulled it over his head and down his torso. The large hole aligned just below his right pec, where he now found a large, purpled bruise. The offending event slipped across the backs of his eyelids, and again he blushed. _Ah. Right._

“It doesn’t have to be _now_.”

Instinctively, Jaskier looked up.

Those eyes captured him anew, holding him beneath Geralt’s charm. Gruff hands found his cheeks, calloused fingertips lining the curve of his jaw. “Tell me… How long have you known him?”

“A decade?” Jaskier murmured, not really knowing why. “Two? What’s it matter?”

“All that time,” he purred, Geralt’s brow furrowing in the kind of gentle sympathy Jaskier had chased but never found. “All that following, that devotion, that pining… And he gave you nothing?”

“Yes, it’s—” Jaskier swallowed, regaining himself. “It’s quite unfair.”

One hand left his face, tracing its fingertips along Jaskier’s shoulder, down his arm, and around the back of his wrist. He lifted Jaskier’s hand, cupped by his own broad palm. “I could make up for all that lost time. You’ve certainly earned it, don’t you think?”

“Of course I have,” Jaskier replied, then blinked and shook his head, realizing what he was saying and who - _what_ \- he was saying it to. Nonetheless, he made no effort to remove his hand. “No, stop! Speak plainly. What are you offering?”

The incubus smirked. “My name.” His other hand left Jaskier’s face, moving to hover over his held hand. A warmth swelled between the incubus’s fingers, and with it a gentle, red glow. “I offer you my name. Invoke it, and you will have your Geralt. With it, you can have him whenever you like, wherever you like…” He paused, then leaned close, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “ _How_ ever you like.” As the words wrapped around Jaskier’s head, so too did scenes he could never have conceived of on his own, not in his wildest dreams. Leather bonds… Warm baths… In one, rope coiled tight around Geralt’s limbs held him firm upon a bed, staring up at him, waiting…

Jaskier’s eyes had grown wide. A deep ache turned his chest to an empty cavern.

“You can have Geralt, and you can have him over… and over… and over…” The warmth intensified around Jaskier’s hands. A deep crimson infected Geralt’s yellow hues. “You need only speak my name.”

“But I don’t… ?” Jaskier murmured, a frown forming even as he spoke. His entranced eyes fell to his hand. “…Gabriel?”

Jaskier screamed.

Suddenly something seared his flesh. Lines carved their way across his palm, blood bursting in a plentiful fount from the fresh wounds. “You will find no love here,” Gabriel warned, Geralt’s commanding voice breaking through the roar of the wind. “But invoke my name, and I will indulge your Lust.” The lines curled into a complicated, hideously beautiful knot. “You will drink of me as you please, and in turn I of you, and in this you shall belong to me.” The lines sealed, leaving behind a thin, pale scar in the shape of an incomprehensible symbol. The warmth faded, and with it the hellish wind. “Now is your fate sealed in Lust, lest Love set you free.”

Jaskier jerked away, beholding his palm in a fascinated horror. “W-What… ?!” he breathlessly asked. “What… did you _do_ … ?!”

Gabriel sneered at him. “I gave you an outlet.” He scoffed, then turned towards the still-open window. “I entreat ye - use it often.”

“I… I don’t… ?!” Jasker continued to mumble. He looked up, finding Gabriel just as he reached the window.

The incubus paused, but only to regard him with a wickedly triumphant grin. “Until next we dance, My Little Bird.”

With that, the vision of Geralt collapsed into a crimson smoke. “Wait!” Jaskier cried, bounding across the room. His hands clawed the air, but he grasped not but wisps as the smoke drifted easily through his fingertips and out the window. He collapsed to his knees, hands upturned upon his lap. Too many questions swarmed his head - but there was one thing, at least, he knew for sure.

“I am _so_ fucked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Two possible fates lay before Jaskier: one[kinder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723093/chapters/54444688), and one [crueler](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723093/chapters/54482272)._


	2. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Two possible fates lay before Jaskier. This is the kinder._   
>    
>  _[-[soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CR64X06r_W0&list=PLk6BQLseS5ibZR004bVoscroH1IziBcG2&index=2)-]_

Broad shoulders that blocked the sun’s rays.

Long hair that tumbled around their faces.

Hard muscles that gave his hands something to grip.

All of it was a dream - a drunken, numbed dream that chased away life’s shadows. Geralt was his, finally his. He, Jaskier, the lowly, travelling bard everyone once laughed at and ridiculed had, for now and forever, claimed his fearsome Witcher.

Except those shoulders had grown bronze.

And that hair had grown dark.

And those muscles… surely a monster-slaying Witcher had larger muscles than that?

And then, there were the eyes. The burning eyes, more intense than staring into the sun itself. Jaskier knew, if only from his own songs on the matter, that those eyes were once like shimmering yellow gems rather than a pair of fiery embers.

Geralt’s hands clenched. Beneath one, Jaskier gasped through the choke, knowing the other would surely bruise his hip. A deep, guttural grunt escaped through Geralt’s gritted teeth, followed soon thereafter by a burst of moist, sticky warmth. His hand robbed Jaskier’s cry of its air, but the sound was no less sweet to his ears, nor the accompanying, reaffirming spray between them less satisfying.

As he released Jaskier’s neck and hip, he chuckled, lips expertly placed beside Jaskier’s ear, the sound sending a shudder down Jaskier’s spine. “Have I pleased you, Little Bird?”

“You… know that you have… !” Jaskier replied between shallow pants. “And don’t… call me that… !”

“Of course not,” came the low purr that had coiled its way around Jaskier’s heart. One thick arm slipped beneath Jaskier, alone enough to hoist him up to sit upon Geralt’s lap.

“A-Ah!” Jaskier cried, hands bracing upon Geralt’s shoulders. His too-sensitive body quivered in the other man’s grip. “Careful!”

Those burning flames rolled in their sockets. “You’re fine.” Nonetheless, he proceeded with additional care, free hand finding the soft cloth still neatly folded beside them. Masterful fingertips plucked the topmost layer, drawing it up and over Jaskier’s shoulder. The slighter man thanked him with a nod, a hand moving to hold it in place so his lover could finish drawing the cloth around his back and over his other shoulder into a snug, secure wrap. With it in place, both Geralt’s arms moved to gingerly lift Jaskier off him and place him down on the ground, back supported by the wide tree that had offered them more propping than cover.

Pulse finally gravitating back towards normalcy, Jaskier released a long, contented sigh, then gazed up at his Witcher. He scanned him head-to-toe, studying every minute detail - details which had already begun to slip. By the time he’d made it back to Geralt’s face, his chest was already back behind that familiar black tunic, and his hair was already tied back and straightened. He found Geralt’s eyes, those eternally scalding eyes, and the void-like calm that lurked behind their sheen. His brow furrowed, somewhat somber but mostly curious. “Why do you look like that?”

It was apparently the wrong thing to say. Geralt’s features twisted into a sneer. “You already know that.”

“No, no, I mean…” Jaskier wracked his brain, trying to grasp what was wrong at least enough to articulate it. “You still look… you know, like…” He gestured somewhat nonsensically - he dare not speak the name. “But you look… I don’t know, different?”

The sneer faded, and the man before him grew quiet. “…Describe it.” For the first time in Jaskier knowing him, he seemed… afraid? “How do I look?”

Jaskier frowned. “Erm, alright… Well, I’d say you’re reasonably tall and claim a delightfully sizable build. Your clothes are black - most of it’s leather, some of it’s silk, maybe some cotton in there. Long, dark grey hair, and while, I assure you, I absolutely love it, you look like you’ve been in the sun a touch too long. Not burned, of course! Rather… like a fresh loaf of bread. And—”

“—crimson eyes,” the other abruptly spoke, equally startling and offending Jaskier.

“No, as a matter of fact!” he indignantly replied. He paused a moment, considering his words, then matter-of-factly replied, “I’d call them more of a ripe orange. It’s all perfectly stunning, if I’ve anything to say on the matter.”

The man scoffed, then turned to search the ground around them. “You’re falling in love with Lust.”

Jaskier blinked. “I… I’m what?”

He bent over, reaching to pluck something from the ground, then drew back towards Jaskier to kneel beside him. “You’re falling in love with Lust,” Geralt’s voice softly rumbled, as though repeating it would make it any clearer. He held Jaskier’s shirt out for him, then continued on as Jaskier went about cleaning and dressing himself. “You’re starting to see me less like him and more like me.” He smirked, Geralt’s features laced with renewed hunger. “With every dance, it matters less and less whether I’m him or me. What matters is the dance itself, and so long as we complete it…” His eyes dipped pointedly down to the dark stains soiling Jaskier’s cloth. “…you’ll be perfectly content.”

Jaskier stared at him, unable to return the smile, but nor either to offer protest. Despairing as the news hit, he couldn’t very well deny it - some part of him knew the incubus’s words were the truth, perhaps had known it was steadily becoming true for years now. Instead, he reached up and wove his fingers amid the long, thick strands of Geralt’s hair. He rubbed it between his fingertips, marveling at its impossible softness and distantly wondering if that, too, would fade. “Sure, why not?” he sighed, resigning himself to this newfound melancholy. “Destiny’s made it pretty clear I can’t have him. If I’m to have something else…” The corners of his mouth curled, an empty snicker erecting itself upon his face. “May as well go with the infinite pleasures of a sex demon, right?”

Geralt’s face darkened into a seductive, sinister grin. He slipped his hand along the back of Jaskier’s head, pulling him close. “That’s certainly my perspective on this issue.”

“Jaskier?!”

Jaskier blinked, inches away from tasting his treasure once more, then groaned and rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. Another one?”

His companion frowned, turning to peer in the direction of the voice - somewhere off and to the side, at the crest of their little hill. Geralt’s lips tightened into a thin line, and with all the grace of a drifting feather straightened himself to a stand, tall and proud.

But he betrayed nothing, and Jaskier refused to look - doing so would further challenge his already precarious illusion. “Go away!” he called out instead. He lifted a hand, indicating Gabriel. “I’ve already got one, see? You can move along, now!”

“What are you—”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed on the newcomer, who’d stopped dead in his tracks just a few paces astray from the hilltop path. He sneered, catching the subtle, confused flicker of the other man’s eyes, and a low rumble swelled deep inside his chest. “You heard the man,” he hissed. “He has no interest in you.”

Just a few yards away, Jaskier heard Geralt’s voice scoff, the sound oddly strained and hollow. “I’m sure you’ve convinced him as much.” The clean, shearing sound of metal sliding against metal betrayed the draw of his sword, summoning distant memories rippling to the surface of Jaskier’s mind. The voice deepened, taking on a threatening tone that still to this day sent chills down Jaskier’s spine. “Step. Away. From. Him.”

Jaskier felt Gabriel hesitate, the backward shifting of his feet drawing a curious furrow across his brow. He’d never known the incubus to be afraid of anything, least of all another incubus… Perhaps this one was somehow more powerful? Jaskier bit his lip at the thought.

Something much more sinister wiped it clear from his mind. Ancient words in a tongue Jaskier could never have conceived of spilled from Gabriel’s mouth, and with it horrible, visceral scenes worse than any waking nightmare. Blood bursting from veins, flesh melting off bone, voices too twisted to still be deemed “human.” Jaskier’s hands clawed at his ears, but it did nothing to quiet the infernal curse - only when a cloud of crimson smoke obscured his vision did the images cease, replaced by a memory of Geralt’s scowling, condemning face. It seemed Gabriel had yielded to this stranger, but not without a final, warning whisper slipped betwixt Jaskier’s ears.

_He abandoned you._

“Jaskier!”

The sound of rustling grass fast approached. Jaskier scrambled to pull on his trousers, face defiantly turned from the sound. “Go away!” he insisted, one hand clutching his cloth tight around him while the other used the tree to pull himself to a stand. “I’m not interested!”

“Jaskier, cut it out!” Geralt’s harsh voice commanded. Despite its strength, it compelled not an ounce of compliance, and in his frustration the man reached out and grabbed Jaskier’s shoulder. “Look at me!”

Of course, Jaskier stood no chance against that strength, and had no choice but to turn and face the man - he _did_ however maintain the freedom of his eyes, still stubbornly clenched tight shut. “No thank you!” he protested, blindly waving in what he assumed was the man’s direction. “I’m perfectly content with my current incubus, thank you very much! And, as I’m sure you can clearly smell for yourself, we’ve just—”

“Damn it, Jaskier, I’m not a fucking incubus!” Another hand found Jaskier’s other shoulder, and the bard braced himself for the resulting shake. It never came, however - instead, the man offered something somehow worse than violence. His voice dropped low, and if Jaskier didn’t know any better he would’ve sworn he detected desperation woven among its words. “Jaskier, please. It’s me.”

_He abandoned you._

Jaskier swallowed, trembling between the man’s hands. His head shook. “N-No it’s not. Why would it be? Haven’t seen him in _years_.”

“Because—” Geralt’s voice began, that familiar rage bubbling anew, but again it abruptly stopped, and the digging of his fingers into Jaskier’s shoulders eased. “Because I… needed to find you.”

_He abandoned you._

“Oh, _that’s_ rich,” Jaskier scoffed. “Geralt has _never_ ‘needed’ me - not that he’d willingly admit, anyway. You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that!”

The hands suddenly released him, alongside a frustrated huff. “Gods, you’re impossible!”

Jaskier winced. A small, broken sound escaped the intruder. He frowned, hesitant. Surely by now an incubus powerful enough to scare Gabriel away wouldn’t simply overcome him, taken what he wanted? At the very least, certainly he’d feel drawn to look, to touch, to breathe the creature’s very essence? But though the sounds tugged at every buried heartstring, they elicited as much agony as pleasure, as much sorrow as joy. Surely an incubus would not be so divided?

He dared a single eye half-open.

Black, loose silk.

Fair, scarred skin.

Chiseled, scruffy jaw.

Long, cloud-white hair.

Yellow, piercing eyes.

Jaskier pursed his lips, voice caught in his throat.

Relief swept into those hypnotizing features, the mouth turning at the corner. “Hello, Jaskier. It’s been a while.” His hand moved towards Jaskier’s face.

_He abandoned you._

Jaskier batted the hand away. Confusion overtook Geralt’s expression, the turn so sharp Jaskier could feel the stab in his own throat. “Fuck off, Geralt!”

A mixture of anger and bewilderment held Geralt in a blinking stun for just a moment - just long enough for Jaskier to turn and begin storming up towards the path. “Jaskier, wait!” he finally called, regaining himself enough to reach for Jaskier’s free hand. “Where are you going?!”

“Like you care!” Jaskier spat, wrestling his hand free easily enough. “You _abandoned_ me! On a mercenary-infested mountaintop, no less!”

“Oh, come on!” Geralt yelled after him. The heavy crunch of his boots upon the dry grass announced his pursuit. “That was years ago!”

“Yes!” Jaskier cried out, whirling. Again, the Witcher found himself stunned, beholding a strained face red-eyed with tears. “ _Years_! Maybe that’s hardly worth your lofty notice, but I’m half again the age I was! And you think you can just strut on over - interrupting what had been a _lovely_ encounter, by the way - so you can barge in and… what?” He wove haplessly at Geralt, finding himself in a rare moment of a loss for words. “Sing you a song you hate? Watch Roach while you throw yourself at ghouls?”

Geralt began to snarl. “Jasker, you were with a de—”

“Ah! Judge my life choices!” He turned on a heel, arms gesturing wide as he continued off down the path - and dropping the cloth in the process. “Yes, splendid! Just like old times! Nevermind the fact that _you’re_ the reason for that particular choice! No, no, the great White Wolf of Rivia couldn’t _possibly_ —”

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier tripped over his own feet, then glared accusingly over his shoulder the minute he regained himself. “You’re _what_?” he scowled, righting his tunic down from where it hung around his neck and shoving his arms through its sleeves.

Geralt rolled his eyes, then took the opportunity to close the distance between him. “I’m… not good at this,” he muttered, clearly miserable and perhaps a touch embarrassed.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Jaskier scoffed.

“No, I mean…” Geralt hesitated, then quickly gestured between the two of them. “I mean _this_. I’ve been alone most of my life - and only partly by choice.” He paused, studying Jaskier’s waiting face, and knew he still hadn’t said enough. He grumbled a bit more, then averted his eyes. “…No one misses the sun, its warmth just one last dawn away.”

Jaskier frowned. “Don’t quote my own break-up ballad at me!” But as soon as he spoke, he blinked, and finally dared Geralt’s gleaming gaze once more. “Wait, you… heard that one… ?”

Geralt sighed, eyes tumbling down Jaskier’s disheveled presence - behind his clenched teeth, Jaskier’s tongue denounced their departure, even as a faint blush colored his cheeks at Geralt’s apparent surveyance. “After I… said those things… When I reached the base of the mountain, the very _first_ place I went was looking for you. I tried the nearest inn, and lucky me there you were, but you had some wench hanging on you while you sang. Figured I’d already done enough harm - least I could do was let you enjoy her.”

Pure irritation soaked Jaskier’s expression. “She was trying to take away my lute, actually.” He turned with a sigh and continued walking. “So that was that? I had a whore, so all’s good, and off you went on your merry way?”

“I had _slightly_ more pressing matters,” Geralt growled in return, following the fleeting bard. “My ‘child surprise’ remember?” Jaskier’s scoff signaled that yes, he did remember, but no, that wasn’t enough. “But I never stopped looking, Jaskier. I just…” He struggled with his words, cursing through his teeth. “Like I said, I’m bad at this. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, so’m I,” Jaskier lamented, waving his right hand in the air for Geralt to see. “You’re a bit late. I’m an owned man, now.”

“What?” Geralt ran ahead stood in Jaskier’s way, forcing the latter to bump into him enough that he could grab the hand and pull it in for inspection.

“ _Ow_ ,” Jaskier muttered pointedly, but offered no protest. His eyes fell to his hand with a detached amusement. “Yeah. My little ‘excursion’ wasn’t a one-time thing.”

Geralt frowned, then suddenly looked up, those startling eyes capturing Jaskier’s so suddenly the bard felt his heart leap into his throat. “You said this was my fault?”

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised?” Jaskier half-laughed, half-cried. “It was that same da—” He abruptly broke off, suddenly realizing what Geralt had _actually_ meant. A harsh wave of color heated his face, and he yanked his hand free. “N-No! Why would it be?!”

In a jarring mirror of that same night, Geralt’s brow rose. “You mean apart from just a few moments ago, when you were _insisting_ I was an incubus?”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at Geralt. “Touché. Fine, you’ve caught me. I’m deeply, _madly_ addicted to you.” He paused, then looked skyward, rocking his head back and forth. “Well, _was_ , anyway.” A bitter taste poisoned his tongue, Gabriel’s words drifting across his mind before he recalled them like a doomsday prophecy. “I’ve begun falling in love with Lust, apparently.”

“But it hasn’t happened yet, has it?” Geralt replied. “Cubi are rare creatures, but I’ve heard the tales of their contracts. There’s a way to release them, isn’t there?”

A dry laugh fell through Jaskier’s lips. “You can’t be serious?” When not but a firm, determined gaze answered him, he sighed, shaking his head as he swam longingly in Geralt’s eyes. “Now is your fate sealed in Lust, lest Love set you free,” he recited, if only to humor Geralt. “A task made nigh impossible, I imagine, when one’s love has rotted to lust.”

Geralt frowned. “But that hasn’t happened _yet_.”

“Wh—?” Suddenly, Jaskier’s back hit a nearby tree, a euphoric gasp accompanying the resulting thud. Belatedly, he realized Geralt’s hands had found his shoulders once more. He lifted his face, confusedly searching Geralt’s. “Geralt, what are you doing?” He placed his hands on Geralt’s chest, trying to reassure the other man, but only succeeded in making the back of his head marvel at the juxtaposition of soft, delicate cloth against firm, rugged muscle. “Look, I appreciate you want to help me, but I’m pretty sure not just anyone can—”

“Shut up.”

But Geralt didn’t give Jaskier a chance to speak anyway. The bard hardly had time to breathe, in fact, before harsh, chapped lips claimed his own. A thick and wild tongue plunged passed his teeth to glide along its counterpart, and as his shoulders finally began to relax, his defensive tension melting against the press of Geralt’s body, the hands that had been holding them instead slipped down along his sides to ultimately perch upon the narrow point of his hips. The kiss consumed them both, leaving them breathlessly panting when at last Geralt pulled away.

“I… ?!” Jaskier began, but suddenly recoiled in pain. He pulled his hand from Geralt’s chest and hugged it close, eyes clenched tight, as an insurmountable heat claimed the full of his palm. He screamed, the sound muffled by silk as Geralt’s arms closed around him, and ancient words filled his head, bringing with them memory after memory after decadent memory. Overcome, he leaned forward, into the figure holding him now - the stench of his musk, the scratch of his scruff, the painful dig of his fingertips kept him grounded. With them as his anchors, he weathered the infernal storm tearing through his mind, until it all at last burned away, and in its wake a terrible cold left him shuddering.

Heart racing, Jaskier pulled away and beheld his palm - clean and pure, unmarred by so much as a single scratch. “It… It’s gone… ?” he whispered in disbelief. His eyes lifted to find Geralt, who was looking back at him with a brow pinched with worry. To his surprise, a flood of joy poured into him, a feeling wholly unlike any of the myriad emotions he’d experienced through these past years. Indeed, it were as though a fog had cleared from his head, his indulgent melancholy at last contained enough to make room for all the other things that filled out a complete life.

Among them was the childlike wonder that had first drawn Jaskier to the mysterious man brooding silently in the corner of a tavern so many, many years ago. He half-laughed, and managed to ask through his goofy grin, “Wait… Who did you see? You know, in the incubus?”

Geralt smirked, the expression far and away more genuine and instilling a tingling feeling more pure than anything Gabriel had ever stirred in Jaskier’s heart. A hand found the back of Jaskier’s head, grabbing the man’s hair, and the other remained firmly planted upon his waist. He leaned in close, and every inch of Jaskier’s body quivered at the new fate promised by Geralt’s heated breath upon his neck.

“I said _shut up._ ”


	3. How'm I Supposed To Die?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Two possible fates lay before Jaskier. This is the crueler._   
>    
>  _[-[soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8X6U65bR8c&list=PLk6BQLseS5ibZR004bVoscroH1IziBcG2&index=4)-]_

He knew what Hell was, now.

Everyone had their own stories of course, their own brands of dark doomsaying, but its existence, the idea that things could - _would_ \- always be worse, seemed universal. The way Gabriel told it, it had always been this way, through every iteration of the world, and likely always would. He wasn’t too sure he believed that, but he had all the time in the world to figure it for himself.

Thus was the “privilege” of the damned.

His own story had begun in perhaps the most unlikely of places: the forgotten ruins of some bygone monarch or other. Flames had long ago claimed its once-exquisite tapestries, and scavenging critters now replaced the people who had roamed its halls. Walls crumbled, every day slipping just a tiny bit further away from its former glory. Deep within, where the outside world had yet to pierce, he had opened his eyes anew…

…and found himself surrounded by terror.

He screamed, immediately met by an awful shrieking like too many swords scraping against stone. He turned, but found himself surrounded: every corner, in all directions, writhing mounds of rotting flesh greeted him, unnaturally clutching at the world with claw-like fingers of ashen bone. It was too much to grasp, too much to face - he recoiled in a tight ball, holding himself as if it stood any chance at shielding him from the surrounding nightmares. He stopped screaming, abandoned instead to fatalistic weeping.

The horrid sound silenced.

A deep cold took residence in his chest. For a while, he refused to emerge from his withdrawal. A part of him knew what he’d see if he did, and it bound his limbs in paralyzing dread.

But he was empty… So very, very empty… And with every passing moment, the feeling just grew worse and worse…

“You’ll have to accept it eventually.”

He winced. The voice was scratchy and hoarse. Nonetheless, he somehow knew precisely who owned it. He violently shook his head.

The voice sighed. “I don’t make the rules, Ezekiel.”

Rage inspired him to whirl upon the speaker. “My name is J—!!!” He gagged, doubling over back upon the ground, clutching at his throat.

Another sigh, and then the chilling echo of bone dragging along caked dust. “It’s ‘Ezekiel’ now. You can thank the Eternals’ dark humor for that - not that the name has any meaning to you or anyone else in this world.”

Drowning in too much despair to cope with, he clung to the only lifeline he could find. “The Eternals?” If nothing else, the conversation would distract him until he worked up grounding enough to finally lift his gaze.

“Ours is calling Himself the ‘White Flame’ this time, I think. Not sure yet about the other one.”

He suddenly wished he’d paid more attention to the various cults dictating society. On the other hand, he imagined it probably wouldn’t help much anyway - it certainly wouldn’t do anything about his name, or… or anything _else_.

A hollow sound ached through his core.

“You better get moving. Wait too long and you’ll seize the first thing that breathes.”

“What do you mean?” Even just the sound of his own voice sent him shuddering. It felt alien upon his tongue, robbed of all its melody. He wondered if he could still sing.

A vile hiss met his question. “You _know_ what I mean.”

He cringed. Somehow, Gabriel was right. He already saw visions skittering across his mind of the rustling remnants of life scattered through the surrounding halls, and of himself among them. He shook his head, struggling to banish them from the backs of his eyelids. “No! No, I… I _can’t_!”

“You _will_ ,” Gabriel sneered, no ounce of sympathy dressing his manner. “Unless, of course, you still your tongue and. Get. Up.”

The visions wouldn’t fade. Perhaps that was a good thing - surely whatever he’d see when he lifted his face could be no worse? Finally he quieted, hands digging into their digits into his arms. Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his face.

Someone - Gabriel, he suspected - had gathered a circle of tall, ornate mirrors, the gold leafing of their frames chipped away and their once-polished faces scratched beyond repair. Nonetheless, they reflected enough to display the gruesome monstrosity he’d become, the decaying corpse that shuddered beneath the weight of its own existence.

“No…” he lamented, willing his reflection’s jaw to move - even as he spoke, it merely hung from a stubborn tendon. “This… is my fate… ?” A thought occurred to him, and in sudden alarm he turned to Gabriel - gone was the dark hair, the bronzed skin, the lithe body, replaced with another declaration of death. A sick feeling twisted his gut as each and every encounter raced through his mind. “You… This is… It’s always… ?!”

Gabriel collapsed into a cloud of crimson smoke. He offered no answer as his essence dissipated through the room’s widening cracks, only a command:

“Follow.”

He didn’t know how, but somehow he did. Some carnal instinct triggered the necessary response in his new form, and suddenly he too was drifting. His essence moved through the world, tethered to Gabriel by the promise of a fresh meal. When his infernal guide eventually coalesced upon a high rooftop, so did he, only to inwardly cringe at the scene splayed all around them.

Even as high as they were, the night’s agonized wailing reached their ears - or whatever it was these forms heard with, anyhow. Heat licked their faces, rising from the multitude of infernos blazing throughout the besieged city. He didn’t want to look, but nor could he pull his eyes away from the sheens of metal that caught the light, the splatters of thick, dark liquid, the scrambling, colliding, and eventual flinging of too many limbs to keep track of.

“ _Here_?” he cried, the hunger worsening even despite the grotesque assault on his senses. “I hardly see how any of this could possibly help.”

“It’s almost over,” Gabriel airily noted with a bit too much detachment for his liking. “There’s a very delicate relationship between Sex and Power, and the victors of battle tend to deem themselves ‘powerful.’ It helps to…” He paused, considering his words, and though he had no discernible features nor emotive faculties a hungry, wicked grin was somehow perceivable through his tone. “…set the mood, if you will.”

He hugged his midsection, hoping beyond all hope it’d help dispel the increasing emptiness leaving him depravedly gazing upon the carnage. “I’m going to be sick,” he groaned, then recoiled from the needy twist of his voice.

“You’re going to fuck,” Gabriel muttered, “or _be_ fucked, and either way, whether you like it or not, you’re going to be glad you did.”

He felt pain where his eyes should be, wanting to cry but lacking the moisture. “This… is my life now?”

The roar of triumph rose from the bloodshed. Gabriel leaned forward - if he’d had lips, he’d have been licking them.

“This is your _death_. Go, feast, and be reborn, O Son of Lust.”

* * *

Memories of that day lingered in the back of his mind. In the years since - so many he’d lost count - he’d had his share of both far better and far worst days. Still, it was a first, and he imagined that meant it’d stay with him forever. Much as he despised it, he at least had to admit it helped keep himself disciplined about his… new “diet.” Not long thereafter, he’d learned exactly what Gabriel meant by his warning to not let the hunger get too bad. When next he woke, it was in a tangle of bloodied shreds - he hadn’t lingered long enough to glean any more detail than that.

_Maybe I should have. Probably the least I owe to whoever… whatever… it was._

“Jaskier?”

He groaned. “Don’t mock me, Gabriel.” He gestured before him, indicating the bustling tavern a few yards beyond the forest’s edge. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“What… ? What are you talking about? Who’s ‘Gabriel’?”

“I _just_ said—” A thought disrupted his ire. The voice sounded precisely the way Gabriel’s voice had sounded before, unmarred by suffering and decay. So why, then… ? He twisted in his perch, one hand bracing himself against his tree’s trunk, and peered to the ground below.

What remained of his heart sank. All of a sudden, he was empty again, the sentiment echoed upon the broken whimper that fell from his lips. “No…”

Geralt frowned. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” With a gentle motion, he urged Roach closer, gaze still fixated upon his long-ago companion. At first, he’d been certain he was mistaken, but as they’d continued along the path and the details sharpened it soon became undeniable. He didn’t care how many decades had passed - he’d recognize that torso’s particular narrowing, those legs’ elegant swinging, those hands’ delicate laying _anywhere_. Jaskier hadn’t needed to reveal his face, but even in the waning evening Geralt could see the graceful curve of his jaw framing gentle eyes he knew would glisten of seafoam if only he’d had a candle to light them.

_But how long_ **_has_ ** _it been… ?_

He pushed the question from his mind, holding his hand up for Jaskier. “Come on, Jaskier. Let me help you down, at least?”

To his genuine shock, Jaskier shied away from him, going so far as to hop lightly up onto his feet. “Go away, Geralt!” he cried, a kind of desperation in his melodious voice. Somehow, even precariously balanced as he was upon that branch, he held himself with a commanding poise. He swallowed, and if Geralt squinted he thought he could barely see a growing glisten at the corners of his eyes. “Please. Just… Just leave me alone.”

Geralt hesitated. Something urged him to listen, to continue on and leave Jaskier be. As he shifted Roach’s reins, it seemed for a moment that he just might… But he set furrowed brow and wrapped them around the saddle’s horn. “No,” he firmly replied, as much to himself as to Jaskier. “Not this time.” Braced on Roach’s saddle, he swung his leg over her back and slipped off onto the ground. “I turned my back on you one too many times already.” Beside him, Roach wrestled uncomfortably - he offered her a reassuring stroke of her neck, then turned and craned his neck back to gaze up as Jaskier. “I’ve regretted it ever since. I won’t do it again.” He shook his head, then folded his arms across his chest, making it excruciatingly clear his feet were planted. “I _won’t_.”

A pained look consumed Jaskier’s eyes, and then a vile curse hissed through his teeth. “ _Damn_ it, Geralt!” He shook his head and turned upon the branch, as if looking for some kind of answer in the surrounding forest floor. “Why are you so impossible?!”

If not for his pride, Geralt would have betrayed his hurt. He excused the outburst with the rest of Jaskier’s earlier words - some kind of nonsensical rambling. “What are you talking about? Look, can’t we at least talk? Let me help you down, then—”

“I don’t _need_ your help!” Before he realized it, he turned back towards Geralt and, in a single motion, hopped down from his tree branch. He landed without so much as a misplaced hair, then straightened himself tall and proud and… not a foot away from Geralt. The Witcher’s rich scent filled the air he breathed, and a haze began creeping its way into his head. “I… Oh… Oh, no…” He pulled himself away.

Geralt kept him in place, strong hands clamping down upon his arms. “Stop running from me, Jaskier.” He took a moment to consider his words, the situation, the flush casting a subtle, rosy hue along Jaskier’s smooth, nubile cheeks. “I know I hurt you. I won’t do it again.”

“‘Hurt’ me?!” came Jaskier’s exasperated cry. He wanted to push away, to collapse and flee, but every ounce of his nature held him in place, too drawn to the warmth emanating off Geralt’s hands. “Oh, _that_ ’s rich.”

“I’m sorry, alright?” Geralt grumbled, a familiar frustration beginning to swell - but something was different about it this time. Unable to put his finger on it, he resigned himself to pushing through. His hands dropped to Jaskier’s waist, the back of his mind caught in awe at the perfect way its smoothness hooked his fingers. Geralt wondered if perhaps he was coming on too strongly, too forcefully - he knew full well hurt he’d caused, and wanted to be respectful of that. Why, then, could his hands do no more than encourage the other man closer? Those questions would have to be answered later - first, he _had_ to address his transgressions. “Please, Jaskier. Tell me how to make it right.”

A sneer would be his answer, and even then Geralt couldn’t help but be grateful he at least held his eyes. “You _can’t_ make it right, Geralt. Not this time.” His lips trembled, and curiosity tilted Geralt’s head - was Jaskier trying to tell him something? “I’m… I’m not your J—”

“Jaskier!” Geralt panicked as the figure in his arms began to gag - he quickly wove off the worries with a frantic wave of his hand and shake of his head. Confused, Geralt shook his own, then convinced his hand to release Jaskier’s waist to instead seize his hand. “Tell me what’s wrong. Even if you think I can’t fix it, I have to at least try.”

“It’s not ‘fixable’!”

“Just tell me what it is, Jaskier!”

“Stop _calling me that_!!!”

The outburst took Geralt aback, but still he clutched Jaskier’s hand. “W… What… ?” he murmured, his thumb subconsciously running along his knuckles. He sighed in frustration - but, if it really bothered Jaskier so much… “Fine, then. What should I call you?”

_What have you done?_

His lips tightened. Nothing but Geralt filled his mind - all he’d been, all he was, all he was now fated to be. His hand shifted in Geralt’s, turning to hold it between them in his upturned palm. “Fine,” he snarled.

_You did this to me._

“You want so desperately to make up for it all?” he challenged, too many years’ worth of built-up spite spilling out at last. “You want to take responsibility for your actions?” His other hand moved to hover over Geralt’s, and he held the Witcher’s dazed, yellow eyes.

A familiar warmth swelled between them.

“Then speak my name.”

“Jas—” Geralt began, then frowned, a different word surfacing through his memories of the merry, flitting bard. He hesitated, but just before he'd quite figured out what was happening he felt his lips move, and a breath escaped his tongue. “…Ezekiel…?”

No sooner than the word has left his tongue did Geralt’s eyes widen with sudden, dawning dread. Heat lanced through his flesh as an infernal, roaring wind picked up around them. Somewhere beyond, Roach was loudly declaring her protest, but only Jaskier’s voice filled his ears. “You fill find no love here.” A poisonous yellow infected his eyes. “Invoke my name, and I will indulge your Lust.” Dark blood burst from thin lines carving their way across Geralt’s flesh - he clenched his teeth, pride alone staying the betrayal of his agony. “You will drink of me as you please, and in turn I of you, and in this you shall belong to me.” As the lines completed their journeys, a final burst of heat cauterized the fresh wounds, and even all the supernatural knowledge of the Witchers could not decipher the symbol left in its wake. “Now is your fate sealed in Lust,” Jaskier’s voice lamented as the world died back down into a deathly still. He choked, and Geralt felt his hands tremble around his Marked hand. “…lest Love set you free.”

At that, Jaskier - now named Ezekiel - dropped Geralt’s hand and began to back away. Only Geralt’s dawning realization kept him from lashing out immediately, held him long enough for Ezekiel to shake his head in disbelief at his own actions. “Just one problem with that, my Sweet Witcher.” He spread his arms wide, goading Geralt to take a swing. “Your Love has already turned to Lust. Your apologies, declarations, professions… they come _too late_. So, now?” He scoffed, and somehow even _that_ disdainful sound pulled at Geralt’s core. “Now, at long last, after… _decades_ of waiting… of chasing a fleeting dream…”

Geralt fell to his knees, hand laying limply open upon his lap. He stared up at what he now knew only _used_ to be his Jaskier. And, as he watched Jaskier’s features turn to a grin, and saw at last the carnal hunger that had been lurking behind the memory of his eyes… he shuddered, and couldn’t rightly tell whether it was born of fear or pleasure.

“Now, my Sweet Witcher, _you_ belong to _me_.”


End file.
